When the clock chimes once
by yellowJsquid
Summary: oneshot. A subtle evening with the Good Doctor. Post Hannibal, using both book and movie.


Disclaimer: This site is called FAN FICTION dot net! If I owned these characters, why would I be on here??

-----------------------------

As he sits back languidly against the warm velvet chaise opposite the glowing hearth, Dr. Hannibal Lecter allows the door to his memory palace to open, and invite him into its spacious corridor. The soft tune of Bach's Goldberg Variations filters through the halls, never echoing as to preserve the nuances of the music. A stroll to the hall of the beginning is in order, but not to see Mischa. Today, the good doctor wants to see someone else.

At the door to the Hall of the beginning he takes a breath, steadying himself. His entry is swift and purposeful. Passing the writhing twin snakes of light and sound, the cannibal slips quietly away from the little deer on the rope. He comes to a halt at the sliding door of his Lady's room, and it opens before him. He then chooses the next door on his left, which leads him to the canal boat of Vladis Grutas. Inside the doorway he can see the body of Grutas, cheekless on the floor. In his palace, Lady Murasaki is with the corpse, silent and motionless. In a flash, his memory takes him to the exact moment he wants to relive. And there it is- the aching, burning guilt and pain, the suffering and need for comfort. He can feel the hot tears on his cheeks and her scent mingles with blood in the air. Grutas is laughing softly on the floor, not yet dead, cheeks intact. Lady Murasaki's back is to him, and he calls out to her, his young voice trembling with the anguish and the need he feels inside.

"I love you."

She turns around slowly, tears staining her flawless skin. The dim lights of the boat make her straight black hair shimmer, and her charcoal eyes burn. She whispers, "What is there left in you to love?"

Pain. Ripping, scorching, hot pain, gnashing and biting him incessantly. Tear flooding his cheeks as his eyes widen in shock and hurt. Something small in the very back of his brain cracks.

The elder Hannibal Lecter steps out of his young counterpart, leaving the suffering behind. He has what he wants. He strolls back through the corridors, and out of his mind palace to focus on the present. The fire has dwindled, and he tosses another log on it from the basket beside him. He sips the 1964 Amarone in his hand, deciding that a chardonnay would better suit the mood, but he makes no movement to fulfill his muses. Instead, he glances towards the woman lying luxuriously on the Victorian couch to his right. Her auburn tresses obscure her face, but he knows she's asleep. Her breathing is moderate, marked only by the slight rise and fall of her bosom in the firelight. She does not shiver for the absence of her clothes, but rather seems to absorb the warm light, which illuminates her curvaceous body and stains her flawless opalescent skin into a hot gold, flawless against a silken silver shroud. She stirs slightly in her sleep, but does not wake.

Dr. Lecter watches her, drinking in the sight of someone who is completely, unutterably, his. It is a sight that few have the pleasure to indulge in, and he wonders whimsically why he of all people has been given the privilege.

As he contentedly watches the fire, he loosens the black bow tie around his neck, the jacket already over the arm of his chair. In his scarred left hand, now normal, he turns his wine glass to make the deep liquid swirl. The large grandfather clock that adorns the wall just outside the study informs him that midnight has passed silently, unnoticed. The brass hands on the ancient clock's face move dustily closer to the gothic 'one', reminding him that the night will soon be over. When his stare returns to Clarice, she stirs, but does not wake. The thin white silk sheet that hugs her intimately barely creases as she sighs.

The doctor rises, and feels a slight stiffness in his legs. Ignoring the discomfort, he steps lightly towards his subject's form, his abyss-like shoes contrasting with the fire's reflection on the dark hardwood. Behind the sofa where she lays, he stops to look down upon her. The new view reveals her ear, scarred lightly from the gun of Evelda Drumgo. Carefully, silently, he moves in front of the slumbering woman and kneels down to be level with her. He shifts to allow the firelight to paint her relaxed countenance before he lightly speaks.

"Clarice."

He whispers her name gently, as if the moment hangs on the syntax of his voice. Her eyes flutter, and open slowly. She does not stretch, but turns her head to look at him. In her endless eyes, the fire reflects, blending her natural molasses eyes to a shimmering bronze. She doesn't speak. Having spent every day since the events on the Chesapeake with this man, she has grown used to mid-night interruptions and his irregular presence. She knows also that he would only wake her to ask her a question, or to aid him in some cause. Tonight he seeks the first, and allows a beat to pass as he searches her eyes before he begins. He watches her reaction as he enunciates his question, mirroring his first Lady in both word and tone.

"What is left in me to love?"

It is unusual for him to ask such a question. Self-assurances and ego do not play a part in his life. But it does puzzle him why this vision, this fountain of spirit, finds him so enthralling. He cannot place himself inside her to find the answer, as he so generally does. It is something that she has hidden away, an answer that had never been questioned. Clarice's brow furrows, and he knows she finds this odd. It doesn't matter. From the corner of his eye, the fire's light consumes his vacated seat, and he ponders whether he should have left things as they were.

Clarice's lips part, and her barely-audible voice, abetted by the warm air and comfortable surroundings, caresses him internally and externally.

"The truth."

The two words flow in the air, and although he doesn't feel satisfied, he allows them to pass for an answer. The dull, reverberating chime of the grandfather clock strikes once, but the note is lost to the pair. His eyes, shadowed and accentuated by the hot, flickering light, seem ethereal. The red points that appear frequently in his retinas grow, gleaming into her unflinching orbs. Hannibal leans forwards, their noses separated by a fraction of an inch, and allows his eyelids to drop. Ever so gently, Clarice moves her lips against his, the two mouths barely touching at all. It is unusual for them to partake in sexual situations. Kisses and embraces are replaced by music and discussion. But here, on this stillest of nights, everything seems unreal. The small, careful action is accepted as much as the presence of the clock, and the taste of full-bodied wine on his lips. He pulls away after an eternal moment, but keeps his eyes closed. When they open, everything is back where it should be. The doctor stands, and extends a hand to Clarice.

"It's late. We should retire for the evening."

Wordlessly she pulls the shroud around herself and takes his offered hand, rising to follow him from the room. His low footsteps, augmented by Italian shoes, overlap her small padding of bare feet. Past the grandfather clock it is black, but they move effortlessly through the thick shadows.

Behind them the fire is dying. In front of them the darkness is freeing.

--------------------------

A/N: Hmm…it turned out pretty good. What started as a writing exercise (write for all five senses) has become a small anecdote told in present tense (something I struggle with). Neato! Well, you know how it goes.

BY THE WAY: This is a slightly revised version, and I'd like to take a moment to acknowledge a few people who have reviewed at this time!

To Screaming Ferret, Thank you so much for your advice and direction. I truly admire your stories and style, and hope to be able to reach that level some day.

To both Green Jewels and K-Rocks, I really appreciate your insight into my word structure, and will keep that in mind in the future. Thanks!

And finally to apocalyptic senses, I'm really glad you enjoyed it, and I'll try to crank out another one with Hannibal Rising undercurrents soon….I've got something interesting in the mix!

Well, thanks to the four who have reviewed so far, and I hope more people will feel inclined to also!


End file.
